


Snap Yo' Fingers

by Calacious



Series: The Bar Saga: A Variety of Tales [2]
Category: Dallas (2012), Happy Days
Genre: Crossover, Drinking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, snapping of fingers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:17:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby wants to drink his blues away, but a cool stranger has another idea. (No slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap Yo' Fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gadhar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gadhar/gifts).



> Written for the following writing challenge issued by a friend: "Bar meeting- Tig, Tony Stark, Fonz, Bobby, Steve, Juice, Han Solo, and that main guy from Sentinel (I forget his name) Go."
> 
> I apologize beforehand if there are any grammatical errors in this story,but I lead a busy life and sometimes I don't have the time to be as thorough in checking over a story as I previously did. I'm happy with that situation, as to me, it's more important to create through writing rather than making sure every little comma is in its place. I'll do the latter when someone is paying me to publish, but for now, my primary goal is to indulge myself as a writer and hopefully, as a bonus, entertain you as a reader.

Bobby missed his big brother something fierce. J.R.'s death had left a great, gaping hole in his chest, and Bobby didn't know if he'd ever fully recover from the loss of him.

Bobby had lost more than just a brother when J.R. had died. He'd lost a man he'd admired and looked up to, in spite of J.R.'s, sometimes downright  bordering on evil,  ways.

He hated his big brother almost as much as he loved him, and Bobby figured that such a harsh dichotomy could only mean  that J.R. was a truly remarkable man. A man that he could never truly fill the shoes of, even if he'd wanted to try.

Bobby took off his cowboy hat, laid it on the bar beside him, and ordered a coke and rum. He spared nothing more than a quick glance at the man who was perched on the edge of the barstool next to him.

Bobby only had one goal in mind, and it wasn't making friends. His plan was to get so drunk that he couldn't see straight, and the bartender had to send him home in a cab. It was a goal that he knew J.R.would approve of, even if no one else would.

Ann was back in his life, and that was great. She was the love of his life. There was a time when Bobby feared that he'd lose Ann for good, and he honestly doesn't know what he'd do if that had happened.

Losing J.R. in the wake of almost losing Ann to prison had been that proverbial last straw. Bobby was hurting, and he didn't have anyone to turn to for help with this particular burden. He couldn't, wouldn't, put any of this on Ann. Not after all that she'd been through.

Besides, J.R. had entrusted this particular piece of the puzzle that would lead Bobby to find his big brother's killer to him and no one else. It rested solely on his shoulders, whether he felt they were strong enough to handle the unwieldy onus of it or not. His big brother had rarely asked anything of him, and Bobby would be damned if he was going to betray the man in his death.

Bobby wrapped his hands around the cool glass, letting the feel of it ground him. He was as angry as he was sad. Part of him wanted to smash the glass against the back wall of the bar, and watch as it shattered in a weak imitation of his own life.

Instead, he took a deep breath and raised the glass to his lips and started on his first, of many, drinks. The coke was a prefect counterpart to the rum, with its sweet effervescence, but Bobby knew that he'd have to change it up for his brother's preferred drink of bourbon if he wanted to get really and truly drunk.

He relished the slight burn of the rum beneath the bubbles of the coke and the way it stung and numbed his lips. It was maybe not the most practical drink to start the night out with, and he could almost hear J.R.'s derision. It made him smile.

"You know," the man beside him spoke up out of the blue, and leaned back against the bar, resting on his elbows, "getting drunk isn't going to solve anything."

Bobby hunched over his drink and tried to ignore the other man. He wasn't even sure that the man was talking to him. He could be talking to anyone. A quick glance along the length of the bar revealed that there was no one on the other side of the man who'd spoken.

Bobby sighed and reached for his Stetson, if he wouldn't be left to drink in peace, he was going to find another bar. First, though, he chugged the rest of his coke and rum, grimacing at the sour feeling it left in his stomach.

The man laid an age-spotted hand on Bobby's, stilling his actions. Bobby's first inclination was to haul off and hit the other man, and he even went so far as to form a fist, but, when he turned to face his quarry, Bobby's anger at the man's intervention simply melted and his shoulders sagged.

He waved the bartender away when the man came to take his empty glass, and noted that the man next to him ordered two Pepsis. He placed one of the Colas in front of Bobby, and resumed his backward lean, tipping the stool on just two of its legs.

In a word, the man was, cool. He wore a black leather jacket which looked as though it had been well loved and cared for over the years. His silver-white hair was slicked back in a very James Dean-like fashion, reminding Bobby of  pictures from the fifties. The good, old happy days.

"Arthur Fonzarelli," the man said. “Call me Fonzie.”

Bobby shook the proffered hand, noting that the grip was strong and steady. In spite of the man's apparent age, his brown eyes were keen and clear, his focus sharp.

The smile he gave Bobby was as blindingly attractive as it was lopsided. It put him at ease immediately, and there was no doubt in Bobby's mind that, even at an advanced age, Arthur Fonzarelli was what one would term, in a bygone era, a chick magnet. Hell, he was attracted to the man's charisma.

"Bobby Ewing."

Bobby found himself returning Arthur’s, Fonzie, Bobby amended,  easy smile with one of his own, and taking a sip of the soda. He blinked when he realized that it felt as though some of the burden of finding his brother's killer had been lifted from his shoulders, and all he'd done was exchange names and take a sip of coke.

Fonzie nodded and took a long, measuring look at him. Bobby felt as though he finally understood what a bug stuck beneath a microscope must feel like. It was uncomfortable, and he shifted on the barstool, nearly losing his seating. Fonzie reached out, and righted him with a flick of his wrist.

The man snapped his fingers and his glass was instantaneously refilled by the bartender who gave him a quick, almost nervous smile before heading toward customers at the other end of the bar.

“That’s a neat trick,” Bobby said.

Fonzie shrugged, as if it wasn’t that big of a deal, and then nodded at the soda that Bobby had barely touched. Bobby obligingly sipped at the drink, wishing that it had the bite of alcohol to accompany it. It fizzled on his tongue, tickling his nose, and Bobby almost laughed at the picture that he and Fonzie must’ve made, sitting at the bar, drinking plain soda.

“Ah, that ain’t nothin’,” Fonzie said with another shrug, and a half wave of his hand. He leaned closer to Bobby, as though about to confide in him, and raised an eyebrow. “See that girl over there?” He gestured toward a far corner booth, and Bobby had to squint to see the girl that Fonzie was talking about. He nodded, though he couldn’t see her well. She looked blonde and young, full of life.

“Watch this,” Fonzie said, and he flicked the collar of his jacket up and then blew on the tips of his fingers. The barstool rocked a little as he straightened out on the seat, and then he smiled and held his left hand aloft and snapped his fingers.

It was like magic, and for days afterward, Bobby would think of his chance encounter with Arthur Fonzarelli and remember how the young lady Fonzie had pointed out to him seemed to shake herself, as though coming out of a trance, and then make her way through the crowded bar toward them. Her sparkling blue eyes were fixed on Fonzie’s face, as though she could see only him, and she wrapped her arms around the man’s middle.

Fonzie planted a kiss on the side of her cheek. She blushed and practically melded herself to his side as though they’d known each other for a very long time. Yet, Bobby could tell that the two of them had never met before. He watched everything with a dumbfounded sort of fascination, as though, if he blinked, he’d suddenly find himself in a completely different universe.

Bobby slammed his mouth shut when he realized that it was hanging open. When he could move again, he tore his eyes away from Fonzie and the girl who was now giggling at something that the older man was whispering into her ear, and he drank the rest of his soda. Without even sparing him a glance, Fonzie snapped his fingers and Bobby’s soda was replaced.

“How do you do that?” Bobby wondered aloud, looking afresh at the man seated beside him.

“You mean this?” Fonzie snapped his fingers and two other women flocked to his side, one of them gave Bobby a sugary smile before focusing her attentions on Fonzie.

“Yeah,” Bobby said, feeling a little angry.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to command the world at the snap of my fingers, he thought. He wondered if all he had to do was snap his fingers, and his brother’s killer would manifest out of the very floorboards of the bar, and hand himself over to him. Or, maybe all he had to do was ask Fonzie to do it for him.

“Aaaay,” Fonzie said, turning toward him, and giving him a rather quelling look. “No need to get all bent out of shape.”

For a few seconds, Bobby feared that the man had somehow read his mind, and his pulse quickened and he held his breath, but then Fonzie squeezed the girl next to him, and said, “There’s plenty of the Fonz to go around.”

Bobby shook his head, and just sat back and watched the man at work for awhile. In a small way, Fonzie reminded him a little of his brother, or rather what J.R. could have become if he hadn’t chosen a path which had ultimately led to his destruction.

When he was just a kid, Bobby had worshipped his big brother, but J.R. hadn’t returned any of his affection. Even so, Bobby had never really stopped trying to show his brother that he loved him, hoping that maybe J.R. would one day love him too, much as his big brother had never really given up on trying to find their daddy’s favor.

Before long, Fonzie waved the girls away, and the three beautiful women departed with sad pouts, as though they were being deprived of something truly great, and perhaps they were. Fonzie sighed and then leaned back against the bar once again.

“See?” he said conversationally. “There’s nothin’ to it.”

“Just a snap of your fingers and the world falls at your feet?” Bobby asked, snapping his own fingers wistfully. When nothing happened, he frowned and rolled his soda glass between his palms.

“The trick is,” Fonzie said, and he leaned in close, so that his lips were almost touching Bobby’s ear, and whispered, “you gotta believe.”

Bobby pulled away slightly and chuckled. “So, I just believe in something and snap my fingers, and that’s it?”

Fonzie nodded. “That’s it.”

He patted Bobby on the back. “Look, Bobby, I don’t know what’s not right in your life right now, but I do know that drinking ain’t the answer. It never is.”

He squeezed Bobby’s shoulder, and for a second, Bobby felt as though it was J.R.’s hand there instead, and something inside of him shifted. Without another word, or a backward glance, Fonzie left the bar, but not before tapping an ancient looking jukebox on his way out. It lit up and started playing a song Bobby hadn’t heard since he was a kid. It was one of J.R.’s favorites.

Bobby finished his soda, and then stood to leave once the song had finished. The jukebox shuddered and grew dark. It didn’t respond when a couple placed some coins in it.

“That jukebox hasn’t played in years,” the bartender said, and he waved Bobby off when he tried to pay for his drinks.

Somehow the world had gotten a bit brighter, and the tightness in his chest had loosened. Bobby snapped his fingers, and nothing happened, but he hadn’t truly believed that anything would. That was something he was going to work on.


End file.
